Come to me, a poem anorexic
whom the rain wouldn't touch.
Ephemeral as twilight,
I need you to bleed from me like toothpaste.
I must struggle with you,
hurl you by the throat
stand over your body, and hold your title
while the syllables count.
I may never reach you Poem.
My only tools are those of beggars
"Please" is the (pre)face paint of clowns
and I wear "I'm sorry" like an old pair of sneakers
with no sole.
My stepping stones are megaliths
left behind by sonneteers and thieves.
All those who wrote memoirs on this path
with dead bodies-
they call out "You are no alchemist,
You believe this may lead to Eden, but it only leads to
dismay!"
I give them nothing. Neither a sigh nor epiphany.
I just move like you, drawn to your lines
Like a pencil ‘round your hand.
These days, I’m writing off more than I can chew.
Every inch of me fails;
I can’t believe I’m dying
This watch placed here
To remind me that time is golden
The shoes I wear
Shell toe’d and Old School’d
let me touch sidewalks
Like Krylon smeared under a bridge
I wear these glasses like memento
‘cause the lines get blurry and we all need
Just a bit of help to see it clear
Surfeit of humility and self-deprecation
So when the clarion salutes me
You wont notice that I’ve gotten awfully close
To holding you
The poem that rain wouldn’t touch